She Wondered
by Chevesic
Summary: Christine's thoughts before she attempts suicide.


**She Wondered**

Terror overcame her, consumed her. There was no difference between her state and that of an animal that knew that it was going to be struck by a whip. She could not fight. She could not run. She could not even stand. It was as though her own body had deserted her, unable to cope with the horrors of her mind. She would have fainted there and then, but the Monster would not leave anything to a matter of chance: a long life- bitter and cruel- had taught him that good fortune seldom stood by one such as he. Hence, the chloroform.

She ought not to have been conscious of her own abduction five cellars beneath the Opera House. But, she was vaguely aware that she was being carried. As she came around, she intuitively knew that she did not want to awake. She knew that she would not be able to bear it. Alas, for her humanity: she could not remain unconscious and unaware forever! Oh, but how she wished that she could! She did not want to face Him. She wanted to forget Him, forget His existence, and relegate Him into the world of her fears and of her nightmares.

When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was his mask. She was almost sick with relief. For now, at least, she would not have to see his face. She tried to rise from her reclining position on the settee, but found that she could not. She simply did not have the strength. She opened her lips to say something, _anything_ but her voice would not do as she bid. She was completely and utterly spent. So, she contended with feebly looking at him through her exhausted eyes.

"Erik is going to his banker" said He, abruptly, before turning and leaving.[1]

This was sufficient to startle her. Later, she would wonder if she should be grateful that she was still capable of being startled. Perhaps, it would be better for her if she was dead inside, lost to all sensation. But, this reflection would not come until later. At that moment, her thoughts were fixated upon her current predicament. The numbness began to leave her as her panic increased. Dear Lord in Heaven, surely all was not lost? Yet, even as she articulated this question in her mind she knew what the answer was. She knew it without a shadow of doubt.

Dully, she wondered whether she would be remembered. Whether her loss would make a difference to the World Above- the one lost to her now forever. Mama Valerius would surely miss her; but, not for long. Her dear Mama was old and had a little time left on this Earth. Even if she did, she would certainly be senile before long. Christine's eyes pricked with tears. Would she ever see Mama again? Would Mama recognise her?

Raoul would miss her. He loved her. Christine could not restrain her tears at the thought of Raoul. With a refinement of self-torture, she pictured their beautiful wedding at the Church where her own dear parents had married, their blue-eyed, golden-haired children, their grandchildren playing about them in their old age: a future dead before it could ever be born. With a cry of anguish, she tumbled out of the settee and on her knees on the carpeted floor.

She desperately wondered whether this was how her life was supposed to end: as a mere footnote in the history of the Paris Opera House. She had never thought of herself as particularly significant in the grand scheme of things. She had no aspirations of being remembered in history. She did not yearn for wealth or social standing beyond what was required for a decent life. Even her ambitions towards becoming a renowned singer were more a combination of the fervent desire of her late Papa and the expectations of her former Angel. She was merely Christine- a simple-hearted girl who loved to sing. Yet, for all her humility, she could not digest being quite as insignificant as this. Was she truly so unimportant that she could be happily consigned to being married to a loathsome beast to the satisfaction of all concerned, except herself?

She wondered if people would feel pity and compassion at her plight, if ever they heard her story. Unbidden, a picture of the chorus girls and the ballet girls came to her mind. It filled her with an unexpected sense of anger. No, they would not pity her. They would pity _Him_. They would sigh and swoon and his Tragedy and at his Great Love. They would conjure for Him a happily-ever-after fairy tale story, wherein he would be the Hero- mysterious, pathetic and romantic. And as for her, she would grow to love Him. She would forget all about her Raoul and eventually love Him. That was how a Proper Love Story was supposed to end. Certainly, Erik thought that this was what was going to happen.

She thought of Raoul again. Erik believed that the only reason she preferred Raoul to him was because Raoul was handsome. She felt a shudder of despair run through her. If she were not so terrified of Erik, she would tell Him that Raoul was not the only handsome man on Earth. There were others, many who were far handsomer. Dear God, how could she explain to one such as Erik that she loved Raoul's dear, brave heart? Could Erik ever understand? Could anyone? She remembered him running into the waves, heedless of his clothes, the protests of his Governess and the dangers of the cold and the sea itself to save her scarf- _"It's all right, I'll go and fetch your scarf out of the sea."_ She could still remember it so perfectly.

Raoul- dearest Raoul, with all of his lion-courage- would not be able to save her. Nobody would. Erik would come and - . She gave an anguished cry in her distress. He would marry her. She would have no say in the matter. He would give her bridal clothes that He Himself had lovingly made. He would present her with a ring, carefully chosen. He would make her say words that she did not mean. She shook her head- lies in a Church! God would not forgive her. After the Wedding, he would…

Christine could feel her heart still in her breast. She thought of his death-hands, his corpse-like person, and the smell of death flooding her nostrils. She thought of his superhuman strength and his tears, flowing from his hollow eyes. Most of all, she thought of his unearthly, angel voice alternatively compelling and coercing her. She looked around the room. The Monster had not left behind any object with which she could harm herself. Her desperate, searching eyes alighted on the clear white walls. Suddenly, she did not feel as powerless.

All was not yet lost.

**[1] Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera, Chapter XXII (The Torture Chamber) **


End file.
